


in this new light

by rosehale



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Morning Sex, Tent Sex, sleepy sexy bellamy, you want sleepy bellamy??? i'll give you sleepy bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 13:59:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15172193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosehale/pseuds/rosehale
Summary: slow, soft and sleepy morning sex.





	in this new light

**Author's Note:**

> i love my boy. have him sleepy and in love. xx
> 
> (anything recognisable belongs to it's respective owners) 
> 
> love, 
> 
> me xx

Freckles, warm skin, the rustle of fabric. A leg slips between hers. The morning light filtering through the material of the tent shades everything a muffled red. Her face is somewhere down by Bellamy’s shoulder, breathing in the musk of him. Two people don’t really fit in a sleeping bag, and they’re all tangled up so she can’t tell where they’re supposed to unwind. Thick fingers push through her hair, pulling it off her face. She looks up, squinting against the light. Bellamy’s eyes are closed, inky lashes still against his cheeks. Pink lips parted, peace across his face. He’s not asleep anymore, but he’s dozing, half awake, half dreaming, fumbling with her hair. 

“Bell,” she whispers, fingertips tracing across the line of his cheekbone. He hums in response, low in his chest, still somewhere else in his head. 

“Time to wake up.” 

He rubs his cheek against the pillow, throws a heavy arm over her, pulls her tighter. 

“Not yet,” he says, voice thick and rough with sleep. 

Her fingers tap across his chin, his throat, “Soon.” 

“Soon,” he agrees, eyelashes fluttering, then parting, slits of brown peering down at her. She smiles at him. 

“There you are,” she murmurs, her hand tracking to press flat against his chest. She can feel the steady thud of his heart under bone and sinew. The rhythm is comforting. 

“Hey,” Bellamy greets, the smile that spreads slow and familiar. It doesn’t come out a lot, usually it’s a smirk, a split second of a grin, not this crooked, full beam. Boyish joy. It makes her head spin, her body arch closer. 

There’s the hush of conversation outside, early risers, morning birdsong, but she feels insulated within the tent, hidden from the outside and all the danger it holds. In here, crammed into a sleeping bag with him, half dressed, she feels safe. The feeling isn’t one she’s used to. She wallows in it, lets it fill her up. She kisses the arch of his collarbone, lets teeth scrape. Bellamy’s finger’s tighten around her hip. 

She can feel him against her thigh, and it amuses her, that despite all the pressure on him, all the weight he drags around, he’s still just a boy, and sleeping next to a warm, wriggly girl, is all it takes for the reaction to be coaxed out of him. She shifts, turns her body, and they slide together, her hips cradled by his. Bellamy laughs, low and quiet. 

“Sorry about that,” he says, but when she looks up, he doesn’t seem at all humiliated. That smile pulls at his mouth. It makes her want to die. But more so, it makes her want to live. 

Still half asleep, wrapped together, slightly too hot in all the cotton of the sleeping bag, she pushes down her underwear, laughs as he tries to kick off his sleep pants. The warm press of skin on skin is addictive. His hands on her ribcage, pulling off her t-shirt, his chest already bare. The rough callouses of his palm over her nipple. Black curls under her chin as he drops to take it in his mouth, wet tongue, sharp teeth. 

“Bell,” she breathes, eyes fluttering closed, his thigh pressing up and close between her legs. Hard muscle for her to rock against. Her hands over his shoulders, down the planes of his back. She can’t see the length of his body, all tangled together like this, but she remembers last night, in the dark candlelight, Bellamy lying on the bed, lips bitten red, all long limbs and golden skin. The press of it against her is just as good. 

His thigh is replaced by thick, sure, fingers, that rub against her, tease, until she pulls hard on his hair in warning and he crooks them into her, laughing, scolding her impatience. She’s just trying to be realistic, they need to be up and presentable in half an hour. There’s no time to mess about. Not like last night, when he kept her on the edge until she was shaking, half mad with it. 

She’s too hot in the sleeping bag, pressed against him (Bellamy is always warm, even in the deep dark of winter) but it’s a good heat, addictive. Their skin slides together. Bellamy leaves wet marks on her neck. She watches through half closed eyes, catching glimpses of mussed up, dark hair, the shape of his shoulder, a red mouth. There’s no space to find a better position, so he slips inside her like this, on their sides, wrapped together, her leg up over his hip. And it’s still so good. Listening to the catch in his breath, the feel of him, the shiver in his belly. 

“Oh, God,” he says into her hair, and it makes her dizzy, that he prays to her. Her hands scrabble over his back, trying to bring him closer, wanting to crawl inside him. She’s never felt this before, like her body was made to fit with his. It’s a strange power, to watch with hazy eyes as his cheeks flush, his eyes glaze, the rough moan of her name, and know that she made him like that, that she can make him feel that good. 

It’s lazy and slow, and she’s languid with it. There’s a restrained strength behind all his movements, a predatory grace. His big hand tangled in her hair, the moment he takes to smile at her, laugh with her, twist closer. She remembers the phrase the teachers had used in those embarrassing health classes way up in space, so far away now. Making love. It echoes as she feels the thoughtfulness in the way Bellamy holds her, in the gentle way he moves with her, the look in his eyes like he can’t bear to stop. Is this what it is? To make love? To have a boy hold her like this, take his time with her, like it’s more important that she feels good than she does. She kisses him so she doesn’t have to face the hugeness of it. 

His jaw tightens, his breath sharpens. She comes first, a rasp of her name and she’s trembling, pulling taught like a bow, then releasing into a million pieces. She watches Bellamy through a kaleidoscope, he presses his forehead to hers, holds her face, pushes deep inside her like he can’t get close enough. He swears, quietly, thickly, and goes boneless, slumped against her. 

For a long, drawn out moment, there’s nothing but the morning sun and her fingers drifting over Bellamy’s arm. They’ve somehow managed to shove the sleeping bag around their waists, so the cold air pricks at sweat tacky skin. Bellamy catches his breath, his hand big and heavy across her stomach. She has to twist to allow him to nuzzle into her neck, but he settles there, like he’s never going to move again, hidden in her shoulder. She traces the bumps of his vertebrae, listens to him fall asleep again (such a boy) and can’t help but drift with him.


End file.
